


Hometown Glory

by serein



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Adele – Freeform, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bayern München, Breakups, Emotional, Football, Football | Soccer, German National Team, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Inspired by Music, M/M, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Past Relationship(s), Schweinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Manuel comes home. Everything's different, yet it's the same. He wants Thomas back-but Thomas is with Miro. Inspired by Adele's Hometown Glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hometown Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tempered_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/gifts).



> This is for Sarah-I tried to get her to write this (I believe it's still on her fic-list on her [tumblr](http://elleeffsee.tumblr.com)); in the end, I just stole the idea right back. Perhaps it would have turned out better if she wrote it-but I'll let you be the judge. I apologize for any mistakes beforehand-Max and I write in a fashion that lacks much editing (just concept revision).
> 
> Inspired by [Hometown Glory](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BW9Fzwuf43c) by Adele. Yes, I realize this is the clean, shortened version-yet I prefer it to the album version.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this work, dear reader.

* * *

_I've been walking in the same way as I did_  
_And missing out the cracks in the pavement_  
_And tutting my heel and strutting my feet_  
_"Is there anything I can do for you dear? Is there anyone I could call?"_  
_"No, and thank you, please madam, I ain't lost, just wandering."_  
-Adele, Hometown Glory  


4:56 pm.

Why wasn't he here yet?

He knew that Thomas liked to be late sometimes-perhaps just to worry him, scare him, test his confidence.

But for two hours?

He was supposed to get Manuel at three-where was he?

Has he forgotten?

Probably not.

But it was Thomas-spontaneous, explosive Thomas-and with Thomas, he couldn't ever expect anything.

But he'd texted, and called, and called other people to text Thomas.

And it hasn't done anything.

Where is he?

Maybe if Manuel counts to five hundred Thomas will get here.

_One, two, three, four...that was too slow, maybe...by fives?_

_Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five-oh, why wasn't he here yet?_

What if he had really forgotten about Manuel?

What if he really had forgotten that Manuel still existed, that Manuel still wanted to be in his life but just couldn't?

What if he had already moved on?

He probably has, Manuel tells himself, scolding his disoriented mess of an emotional scale. You've been gone for eleven months-gone like really gone. Total radio silence.

_For eleven months._

Thomas would have been foolish not to have found someone else.

But could they pretend?

Could they pretend for the six days that Manuel was here that the latter hadn't deleted long voicemails of Thomas' choked sobs, his sincere letters which held desperate wishes for just a _hello_?

Could they pretend that Manuel hadn't thrown the balloons and the flower out his window?

Could they pretend that Manuel had merely just-well-had to take a break?

But wasn't that what he wanted to do?

Take a break?

A long break, okay.

Maybe it was a little more than a break.

Is running to a country one thousand and two hundred kilometers too much?

Is it still a break?

Trying to recline slightly but finding it difficult, Manuel settles into the cold black leather of his chair, loosening his grasp on his woolen coat. The air is laced with the warm scent of pretzels and Apfelstrudels. The final rays of sunlight are streaming through the glass panels of Munich International Airport, and twilight-the eighteen minutes of afterglow of day- is already halfway through its feast of light. The sky is rapidly darkening, and Manuel isn't sure whether Thomas will ever get here.

Maybe he will have to sleep here in the airport-he doesn't even have a hotel booked, and Thomas is not one for random showings of faces.

Could he catch a taxi to Bastian's?

Maybe-but would Bastian be upset? He and Lukas had-they'd done something. Manuel's memory hazes over, and he can't conjure up what they did.

"Sir?"

A pretty young woman, blond hair pulled back into a high ponytail, addresses him, slightly concerned. Her words snap Manuel out of his haze, and he jerks up out of his chair.

"What? Hi, I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Do you require assistance? You appear...quite lost, if I may so myself. Is there anything I can do for you? Anyone I could call?"

"No-just-no, I'm just...wandering, a little, not lost. I'm really just waiting for a friend to come pick me up."

"Oh. Okay. Good luck, then, sir."

"Thank you, kind madam."

She turns her heel and leaves Manuel victim to his own thoughts, her red pumps click-clacking into the hazy oblivion of the crowd.

Thomas still hasn't shown up, and Manuel is worried.

Where is he?

What if something had happened?

What if...Thomas just hadn't came, just hadn't paid any mind to Manuel's text messages after months of one-sided communication, one-sided begs for attention?

What-

"Manuel, let's go."

He's here.

Thomas.

And he hasn't...changed, besides the haircut.

Or at least at first glance, Manuel mumbles to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Okay. Let's go."

"O-okay, ah, let me..."

"Let's go."

"Wait-"

"No, we need to go. Come on."

And with that, the lanky brunette turns and starts walking, disregarding Manuel's slightly desperate grasp of all his items. Slinging a bag over his shoulder and protracting the handle of the red suitcase, Manuel sighs, unsure of why Thomas is being so ruthlessly cold. Scrambling, he tries to catch up as he sees Thomas' unruly head bob up and down as the brunette weaves through the throngs of businessmen and travelers.

As soon as Thomas is out of reach, his thoughts go off like a rocket.

Is he mad?

Then again, why wouldn't he be mad?

You fucking ignored him for a year, a little voice in Manuel's head screams. You fucking left him for the wolves, for the lions' snapping jaws.

So why the fuck would he be not mad?

But-he was Thomas.

He only gets mad when you tempt him with hot pokers.

Who said my own ignorance wasn't a hot poker?

It is war inside Manuel's head, and the blond begins to feel the first signs of a headache.

And then he stops.

Because Thomas stops.

In front of the glass automatic doors, Thomas turns around to make sure Manuel has followed. Feeling satisfied, he remarks flatly.

"My car's outside."

"Yeah, okay."

They proceed outside, and almost immediately, Manuel's ears redden from the December air.

And then Manuel realizes that, for the first time in nearly a year, he is back.

He is back in Munich.

He is back, and breathing Munich's air.

A fine layer of snow covers the cement, and the softest flakes have began to float, gently, through the fine air.

"Let's go. It's over there, in the parking lot.

The red glow of car taillights and screeching of brakes illuminate and fill the sights and sound of the short journey to the parking lot, and Manuel finds him at awe-he's been here tens upon hundreds of time-but it all seems new again.

Like he's been reborn into a different life, almost.

Is this why Thomas is treating him differently?

All of the sudden, the brunette stops again in front of a black SUV.

"Leave your luggage. Get in."

"But-"

"Manuel, let me put it away. I can do it. Get into the car."

"Wh-"

"Go."

"Okay."

Confused, Manuel cautiously opens the passenger door, careful not to bump the electric blue Seat Leon in the space next to Thomas'. The car gives off an odd odor-it's like it's brand new.

Weird.

Settling in, Manuel takes to removing the strap of the bag around his shoulder. He sets it in his lap, and subconsciously, he reaches for the seatbelt, fastening it around his waist and across his chest.

Thomas gets in the car without a word, slamming the door and pushing the keys into the ignition. The engine roars to life.

Effortlessly, Thomas backs out of the parking space and, after a couple of rounds, reaches the gate in the front.

The guard in the front motions for him to roll down his window-just as the snowfall has began to heavy. The windshield is already covered in a slight shell of frost, and Manuel wonders how long this car has been sitting here.

If it's been here long enough to collect frost, why didn't Thomas come and get me?

"Five dollars."

The guard smells of cigarettes-heavy, heavy nicotine-and Manuel withdraws, slightly, repulsed.

After a bit of digging through his coat pocket, Thomas produces the money, and with a tight-lipped smile, hands the money to the guard.

The guard shines the money with a black light to check authenticity, and, finding it suitable, gives a slight nod and the red-and-white partition raises and a second female guard motions for Thomas to go. Thomas flicks on his headlights to full blast, and he races through the partition.

It isn't until fifteen minutes later, after the heavy traffic that backed up nearly five miles of road (which was tainted with Thomas cursing under his breath), that Thomas breaks his silence with Manuel, who hasn't said a word since they left the parking lot.

"Why are you back?"

"To see you, I guess."

"I have a boyfriend, Manuel. I don't think you should have came back."

"I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Why didn't you just Skype me or call me?"

"I wanted to see you in person. A surprise!"

"It wasn't much a surprise. You texted me like three weeks before to tell me you were coming."

"True, but, I'm here now."

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"At-at my house, of course."

"Your house was burned, Manuel."

" _What?_ "

"Philipp accidentally set it on fire. We got everyone out, so no one got hurt. You're sleeping at my house tonight. I've arranged everything."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did. I told you probably four or five times in my voicemails."

"Voicemails?"

"So you didn't get them?"

"No, I got them."

"I got them."

"Deleted them?"

"No."

"Then how do you not know?"

"I-well, um-just-"

"It's okay, I understand."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

And the silence wins its dominance once again, and the night dwells on Manuel's insecurities and Thomas' confusion.

* * *

_Round my hometown, memories are fresh_  
_Round my hometown, ooh, the people I've met_  
_Are the wonders of my world, are the wonders of my world_  
_Are the wonders of this world, are the wonders of my world_  
-Adele, Hometown Glory  


Thomas' house is dark-except for a single light-the one in the attic seems to radiate a foreign warmth that Manuel hasn't felt in a long time.

A really, really long time.

The car pulls up the driveway-and Manuel sees, for the first time, that Thomas' house has changed.

A lot.

He's gotten rid of the light blue paint and the daisies and pansies and geraniums in front.

The house is now a solid grey-a grey that reminds Manuel of rain.

A grey that reminds Manuel of the day he left-the day he didn't even say goodbye.

And the flowers?

Now there are just rose bushes.

Stark, violently beautiful rose bushes that are bare of roses-bare of life.

The thickening covering of snow appears to enchant the façade of Thomas' house, and oddly, Manuel feels as if he as at home-even if he hasn't set foot in this place for the longest.

"Get out, Manuel. The snow's going to get worse if you don't."

"O-okay, are we going inside?"

"No, dipshit, we're going to freeze to death outside."

"Let me get my stuff."

"I will, but only if you get out."

With a hint of a smile, Manuel adjusts his jacket, slings the black bag on his lap back over his shoulder and promptly jumps out of the car. He slams the door behind him.

He's prey again to the cold, and his cheeks flush.

"Don't just stand there, Manuel, help me."

"You didn't need my help at the airport."

"Well, that was because I was trying to be polite."

"Oh."

With relative ease, Manuel takes the suitcase out of the trunk and automatically starts rolling it up the pathway to Thomas' door.

"Hold your horses, darling."

"What?"

"Nothing, let me get my keys."

Thomas closes the trunk with a hard slam, and runs, effortless, in front of Manuel to reach the door.

Manuel's awed, just slightly, that Thomas seems so different when he's still the same.

Thomas pushes the key into the lock, and with a click, the door opens. Thomas steps in first, and he flicks on a light switch, illuminating the doorway and the entryway.

"This is my house. Miro isn't here; don't worry."

"Wh-"

"Miro. Miroslav Klose. My boyfriend."

"Oh-you-you two-"

"Yeah, we live together."

Manuel's suddenly at a loss for words. Thomas-lives with his boyfriend?

When he and Thomas were together, they didn't live together.

Well, kind of, but not like _live_ live together.

"Did you-"

"Yeah, of course. What, did you think Miro was some abstinent virgin?"

"No, I-"

"Don't you get defensive."

"I'm not, I'm j-"

"I'm no longer yours, Manuel. I'm my own person, and I'm romantically involved with Miro. I really like him, and I don't want that to be messed up. Okay?"

"Y-yeah, okay, ah-"

"Your room is upstairs. Second door on the right. First door is Miro and I's bedroom. If you need anything, I'll be there, or in the kitchen down the hallway on your right, or in the attic."

"Attic?"

"It's my...own little bubble. I have all my stuff from home there."

"Do you-do you still have-"

"No, I lost it."

"You lost it?"

"I lost it. I'm sorry, Manuel. I don't have your ring anymore."

"It's okay."

"I'll let you get settled. There should be leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator if you're hungry. If not, we're going out later for Italian. Unless you want some German cuisine, that is."

"I'm okay with anything."

"Cool. See you in a bit."

Turning, Thomas starts heading towards the narrow wooden staircase but Manuel catches him before he starts climbing.

"Thomas?"

"What?"

"Is Miro coming home?"

"He's...at Per's, I think."

"Will he be here for dinner?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Nothing, just wondering. And one more thing?"

"Yeah?"

"How's Philipp? I heard that he wasn't doing well from Bastian."

"You've been talking to Bastian?"

"No-yes-occasionally."

Thomas' face contorts, and an emotion Manuel isn't quite sure how to identify flits over Thomas' gentle face. Giving a tight-lipped smile, he replies.

"He's-ahh-okay. Do you really want to know?"

"He's my friend."

Thomas winces slightly, which Manuel pretends he doesn't see."

"Okay, Manuel. Come with me."

"Should I leave my stuff here?"

"Do whatever you want."

The pair of men climb the stairs, and Thomas flicks on a second set of lights to illuminate the hallway upstairs.

"This is the way to the attic," Thomas says, pointing to a ladder grounded to the floor and the wall by nails. "Come on."

Manuel shifts, but doesn't clearly object.

He follows Thomas, and is immersed into a room like no other.

Thomas' attic is the most beautiful room Manuel has ever seen. Bayern flags and Polaroids-black and white, faded and glossy-cover the room. Almost subconsciously, Manuel find himself touching the photographs pinned to the wall, touching the edges, touching the faces of those he's known, those he hasn't.

_Mum_.

_Lukas_.

_Basti_.

_Lisa, the Paris girl._

And then...

_With Manuel, my love._

There is Mario, a smiling Thomas and himself staring back at him, and he only recognizes two of the three people.

"Thomas-"

"Come here."

Manuel turns around and sees that Thomas is in the corner, holding up a single Polaroid.

"Wh-"

"Look at this."

The photograph is of Philipp-a smiling Philipp, a smiling Philipp at some kind of a beach, a smiling Philipp during sunset, a smiling Philipp with no...hair.

Why does he not have any hair?

_October 14th_ , the caption reads.

Why does Philipp not have any hair?

Where are his bushy eyebrows?

Where-

"Thomas?"

"He doesn't have hair, I know."

"Why?"

"Chemo."

"Ch-no. No, no, Thomas, this isn't true. No, Thomas. Thomas. No. You're lying. This is Photoshop. This is Photoshop. Thomas. No. NO! NO! THIS CAN'T BE REAL!"

Thomas nods, sadly, and shakes his head, not breaking eye contact with Manuel.

"I'm sorry."

"No! How could you not tell me? Was this in the voicemail? Oh, god-"

"No, I didn't think you were ready-"

"Ready?! How can you EVER be READY for something like this? No, Thomas, please tell me this isn't real."

"He passed away six weeks ago."

"Please, Thomas, say it's not true."

"It's true. I'm sorry."

"Oh, God-"

Manuel's eyes close, slowly, and he exhales loudly. He lets go of the Polaroid and it flutters to the ground. Tears stream down his cheeks, and Thomas doesn't know what to do anymore. Thomas doesn't know whether to touch him or leave him alone or go bake cookies or anything. Miro always wanted Thomas to leave him alone-was Manuel different?

Manuel chokes out a single sob, and turns away from Thomas, hugging his arms to his chest.

Careful and suddenly shy, Thomas gently puts his arm around Manuel's abdomen and leans his head on the tall blond's shoulder, whispering.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."

"I wasn't even here-"

"It's okay."

"I didn't even say goodbye-"

"Its okay."

"The last thing I said to him was 'good luck'."

"It's okay. Manuel, it's okay."

"Oh, God-"

"Shh, Manuel, it's okay."

"Please stay with me."

"I will, don't worry."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, don't worry."

"I'm sorry for doing this."

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Fuck-"

"It's okay."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

Manuel's tears don't seem to stop for what seems like forever.

But when they do, Thomas doesn't let go, and the night seems to wash itself away as the two former lovers embrace each other-desperate for each other, desperate for something that they'd been missing-missing here, missing now, missing together.

It seems as if it is an hour before Thomas lets go-by then, Manuel's cheeks are dry and his brain begins to function again.

"Manuel?"

"Thomas."

"Manuel."

"Thomas."

"Can we just eat my leftovers for dinner?"

"I'd like that."

"Okay. I'll give you a moment-"

"No, take me with you-"

"Okay."

"Okay."

The two look at each other before Thomas opens his mouth and closes it again.

"What?"

"Nothing, just-"

"Spit it out."

"Nothing. Let's go."

"If you say so."

Heading down the ladder and then the staircase, Manuel's mind begins to occupy itself again.

Why did Thomas hug him so close?

Why did Thomas whisper comforts into his ear?

This wasn't like Thomas.

This was like Bastian.

Thomas was the one who would make terrible jokes and bad puns; Thomas was the one who would make you laugh, even if it was a sad laugh. Thomas wasn't one to hold you close and tell you that everything was okay.

Maybe it was just Manuel, or maybe Thomas had really changed.

Why had he changed?

Was it him leaving?

Probably not.

All Manuel leaving did was probably make Thomas desperate and sad.

But not change him.

And then it hits Manuel.

Miro.

Miro changed him,.

Miro's turned Thomas into this empathetic, sensitive person who understood.

Miro was good for him, Manuel thinks.

Swallowing, he says it louder in his head.

_Miro is good for Thomas._

And there would be...nothing he could do.

Because how could he prevent Thomas from being with someone who helped him?

All Manuel did was hurt.

Hurt.

Hurt.

Hurt.

All he could was hurt.

Perhaps he shouldn't have came back in the first place.

He shouldn't have came back.

"Thomas?"

The younger man turns around, inquisitive.

"What?"

"I-I'm not really that hungry. I'm-I'm going to go to bed."

"Um-"

"Yeah, just...I'll just skip dinner for today, my flight was exhausting."

Thomas' unbelieving face makes Manuel continue.

"And...I ate something, before you came."

"O-okay."

"Yeah, just eat...with Miro."

"Manuel, I don-don't think that Miro will be home for a while."

"Uh-okay, eat...alone, then. I'm-going to go."

"O-okay, Manuel, the bathroom...should be adjacent. I have laid out a fresh towel for you-a blue one. Mine is red, and Miro's is green. Don't touch ours, please. If you need extra pillows or-you know, anything-just let me know."

"Okay. Good night?"

"Good night, Manuel."

And just before Manuel heads back up, he watches as something passes over Thomas' face-something that made him age. Age years and years. Manuel isn't sure what it is, and he doesn't want to ask. Pushing it to the back of his mind, he climbs the stairs and walks into his room, flipping on the lights. Without removing any clothes besides his socks, he gets into the bed and under the comforter, pulling it close to his body. Within five minutes, Manuel falls into deep sleep-lights and clothes fully intact, room nearly untouched.

Late into the night, Thomas sits at the table, alone, the kitchen light the only light still flickering. He fiddles with his fingers, and time seems to stretch on and on. He, too, like Manuel, falls into slumber-but his dreams won't be nearly as peaceful.

* * *

_I like it in the city when the air is so thick and opaque_

_I love it to see everybody in short skirts, shorts and shades_  
_I like it in the city when two worlds collide_  
_You get the people and the government_  
_Everybody taking different sides_  
-Adele, Hometown Glory  


Manuel wakes up the next day at dawn, squinting, his eyes adjusting to the faint light outside his windows. He sits himself up in bed, and realizes that his lights are off. Perhaps it was Thomas who had came up to turn them off. Or-

Oh my god.

There were voices downstairs, Manuel realizes as he begins to come to his senses. Two voices, that is.

Thomas.

And...

Dear lord.

It's Miro.

As softly as possible, Manuel hunches and tip-toes to the door, opening it just a crack but enough so he can hear snippets of the conversation. Getting on his knees, he puts his ear to the crack of the door.

"-don't understand-"

"-just at Per's-hell-stop worrying-"

"-weren't even here to greet Manuel!"

"Why the fuck should I say hi to that shit?"

"-ease, Miro, don't yell-"

"Fuck you."

"Stop-"

"-ust _fuck you_."

"No, please-"

A door slamming makes Manuel's heart beat a little quicker, and he catches Thomas' long, shaky breath afterwards.

He pries the door open a little more, and to his horror, it creaks.

Immediately, Thomas' voice rings out.

"Manuel, is that you?'

Unsure of what to do, he doesn't reply.

"Manuel?"

"Y-yeah, it's me."

"What are you doing?"

Thomas' voice seems raspier than normal-perhaps-?

"Ah-I'm-yeah-I'm coming down, give me a second."

"Okay."

Standing up as quickly as possible, he bounces on the soles of his feet for a few seconds and exhales, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. Opening the door completely, he walks out of the frame, unsure of what he's going to see.

When he gets downstairs, all he finds is a lone glass of milk on the chestnut table and a disheveled Thomas sitting in an ebony chair. His knees are pinned together, and his elbows rest on the table, his hands covering his face. Trying to be cautious and quick, the hesitant Manuel pulls a chair as silently as he can towards the table and sits down on it, hands folded in his lap. He waits for Thomas to open his mouth first.

The younger man doesn't seem to notice Manuel's presence at first, but when the blond tentatively puts a hand on his counterpart's unruly locks, he looks up.

"I-Miro-"

"I know, I heard a little."

Thomas seems startled.

"H-how much?"

"Just his slamming of the door."

"Oh. I'm sorry for that."

"It's okay. Are you two-"

"I don't know what we are anymore. I don't know why he's like this; he isn't norma-"

"It's because I'm here, isn't it?"

"No-Manuel, n-"

"You said it yourself though. You said I shouldn't be here."

"I'm s-"

"Don't apologize. You don't want me here. I'm sorry for coming back. I missed you, and I was selfish."

"You're not selfish."

"I am. I broke-"

"You didn't break us up."

"I broke your spirits, though. I-I'm going-"

"Eat breakfast with me, please."

"No-I-"

"You're not going to eat anything with me at all?"

"I-I want to go on a walk."

"Can-can I?"

"Come with? Um-sure, maybe."

"Maybe we could go down to the coffee shop, or maybe to the pretzel store. "

"Maybe."

"Get in the car, then? We should probably go to downtown München; it's livelier."

So before he's realizing what he's doing, Manuel grabs his woolen coat, carelessly slung upon his red suitcase. He'd forgotten to take it upstairs, Manuel says to himself. Shrugging on the coat, he pulls it over his shoulders cavalierly, insouciant.

God, he'd changed. The last time he'd seen Thomas, he'd been the one who always had to dress like what Vogue and GQ said. Now he was the opposite-hair ruffled, conflicting colored shirt and jacket, old leather shoes with chewed shoelaces-he seemed to be a wholly different person. Thomas, on the other hand, was dressed elegantly-navy suit jacket, gold pin, black pants and crisp lapels. Thomas was a vision of fashion; Manuel was a vision of half-eaten chip bags and sleepless nights.

Stepping outside, he realizes that dawn's already gone, and the early stages of day have already begun. The air's thick and hazy, opaque with a sense of longing for something that is still his own. Thomas' house is in the outskirts of München; it's a thirty minute drive into downtown München. He tries to open the door to get into the car without a word, and is surprised to find the door unlocked. He sits himself inside, almost instantaneously pulling his seat belt over his chest.

Thomas comes out of the door twenty seconds later, suit jacket and all-except he's changed the black leather shoes out for a pair of electric blue gym shoes. His keys hang out of his pocket, and are on the verge of falling out. Thomas doesn't seem to notice; a tired smile stretched across his face, he approaches the car and gets in, squinting as the sun's rays meet his eyes. The two look at each other for a moment-wordless, silent. Then, Thomas breaks the silence and his gaze and turns the ignition. Manuel looks away, awkward, blushing.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. I've-"

"-missed you. Yeah."

"Yeah."

Turning out of Thomas' driveway, the street which Thomas lives on is almost bare besides a rogue glass bottle planted untimely in the middle of the road. Thomas' car swerves around it, and he swears roughly. Manuel's only slightly shaken but he's worried that this isn't going to end well. Pulling onto the freeway a couple minutes later, he sighs in relief-and just realizes that he's been holding his breath for the last minute and a half.

"Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"Wh-where are we going to park?"

"Um-I'll figure it out. Maybe I'll find some marked off area. I do have my license-perhaps they'll let us in some residential area."

Half an hour later, the two have successfully parked the SUV into a tight squeeze between an pale green Avalon and a silver BMW. A flushed-faced Manuel climbs out of the passenger door, as careful as possible as not to hit the silver BMV. By some force of nature, Manuel's able to get out with his wool jacket under his arm and close the door successfully without damaging the adjacent car in anyway. Thomas does the same, and the two men stride through the parking lot, silent. The snow's began again, and Manuel's afraid that his shoes will get wet from the snow. It's still light-perhaps they have enough time to make some rounds.

Wandering through the busy streets of Munich, Manuel's nostalgia reignites. The city's beginning to reawake, and the citizens are either lazily strolling or rushing to work. It seems as if the bustle of the early birds are part of an entirely different world as the others-the others like Manuel and Thomas, who idly walk along the sidewalks, peering into to shop windows-some are empty, and some are packed to the point of discomfort. The patrons come in three packages: the excited family, the impatient worker, and the traditional customer. The excited family is the rare kind today-it seems as if the children are still in bed.

Children.

Philipp-where are-where are Philipp's children?

"Thomas?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are Philipp's children?"

"Bastian and Lukas..."

"Bastian and Lukas..."

"They-they-ahh, how do I say this? They-took them in. Until-until they can find some stability."

"Stability?"

"Foster family."

"Philipp's kids will go to a foster family?"

"Philipp didn't have any family left. So naturally..."

"What if-"

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Okay."

Thomas and Manuel arrive in front of a store named _Maelu_ , which Thomas finds particularly inviting because of the colorful array of macaroons, tarts, and éclairs. Pushing open the door, the smell of baked goods consume him-and Manuel feels...invited. Welcome hasn't been something he's felt in a while, and the warm feeling of belonging squirms its way into his body. The warmth is almost inebriating-thoroughly foreign to the point of suspicion. All of a sudden, Manuel realizes that he's been standing slack-jawed in front of the counter. He blinks twice, unsure of his surroundings for a second, and then notices that Thomas is the same. Nudging his ex-lover, who jerks out of his own trance, the two men hunch down to look at the neatly arranged rows of desserts. The smell of coffee tangs the air, and the whirring of liquid is strangely comforting to Manuel.

He hasn't drank coffee-good coffee, that is-in a while.

A middle-aged woman stands expectantly behind the counter-the store is nearly empty, save an elderly couple delicately sharing a long éclair. She's dressed in a black blouse, complimented with all white pants and, Manuel later sees, a pair of black pumps. Her hair is pulled back into a bun; a few rebellious hairs fall into her face. She wears little makeup, pardon a thin shade of lip gloss, and almost no jewelry-just her ears carry two very slight earrings. Her blue eyes shine with a joy, and Manuel observes that a nametag-embroidered _Sonja_ -is pinned to her blouse. Her lip curls, and she reveals a quiet, crooked smile that reminds Manuel of his own mother-but slightly younger.

Stepping forward, Manuel opens his mouth and closes it again, suddenly insecure about his food choice.

The woman appears to sense this and takes it in stride, addressing him.

"What would you like, kind sir?"

"Could I-ahh-what do you recommend, Frau-?"

"What do I recommend? Uh-it has been a long time since I have been asked this question. Perhaps-perhaps-the éclairs, or the macaroons?"

"Anything that-he," Manuel gesticulates towards Thomas, "and I could share? Or take home?"

"Ah! I would recommend-perhaps-the banana tart treat? The Pistazien Törtchen are also prime."

"Tarts? Are they sour?"

"No-they're quite sweet. The Pistazien Törtchen is one of my favorite."

"That'd be one for me then, please. Thomas?"

"I-I guess-I'll try that-that Wiesn tart. Wiesn was quite a while ago, why do you still carry them?"

"Don't you think they're beautiful, Herr-"

"-Müller."

"Don't you think they're quite beautiful, Herr Müller?"

Thomas loses himself in thought for a second, and Manuel grows uncomfortable in the silence that follows the question.

"You're right. They're gorgeous."

"Okay, Herr Müller-so one Wiesn tart for you, and-for you, sir," she gestures towards Manuel, "-a Pistazien Törtchen. Anything else?"

"Ah-cappuccino for Thomas. And-how about-the...Tantris...Röstung for me?"

"Elegant choice."

"Thank you."

"I'll have your coffee in five minutes."

The woman takes Manuel's outstretched cash and hands him his change back wordlessly, a faint smile etched upon her face.

Promptly, she slides on a pair of clear plastic gloves and pulls the sliding door behind the counter open. She pulls out a round, sweet Wiesn tart for Thomas, blue like München skies-blue like Manuel's eyes. Manuel's Pistazien Törtchen is next, the green surface impossibly smooth in appearance; a mahogany chocolate leaf juts out from the side, and a small, white plastic square bearing the store's logo is wedged to the left side of the treat. The letters are gold, and for a second Manuel is reminded of the gold letters of the first anniversary card he ever received from Thomas.

That card was quite miniature too-but not as minute as the one wedged into the tart.

It was embroidered, but it was very simple.

Gold cursive.

_I love you, Manuel_ , it had said. The simplest words-yet they were words that made Manuel ecstatic that day. Because why?

Because...

Because that was the first time either of them had said it.

Jerking out of his little state of semi-catatonia, Manuel reaches forward and grabs the tray that the woman is holding out in front of him, Thomas' and his treats neatly placed on plates on the tray; the silverware is neatly placed next to the plates. He buckles a little with the weight-it's more heavy than he expects. Thomas grabs on to the other side before Manuel can fall over.

"You okay?"

"Um-yeah."

Walking over a window-side table, Manuel and Thomas set the tray down carefully, and Manuel realizes that Thomas grabbed his hands.

They're holding hands.

God.

And Thomas doesn't let go until a minute and a half later, when he needs to reach for the knife. Looking into Thomas' soft eyes, Manuel feels an odd sense of security. The woman calls Thomas' name, and Thomas holds the gaze for one more second before pulling away. He retrieves another tray from the woman-this one carries the coffee cups.

A simplistic piece of latte art rests on each of the hemispherical white porcelain cup-a white heart.

Glancing up at Thomas, Manuel fidgets a little before picking up his coffee-his tart remains untouched.

Out of his peripheral vision, he sees the woman behind the counter smile faintly, and fold her hands as she sits herself down in a black stool. She exhales loud enough for Manuel to hear it as a whisper, and pulls out her hairpins, setting the before-tightly-wrapped bun into a cascade of flowing brown locks, the silvers intermixed with the dark. Manuel looks away from Thomas and directs his gaze towards the woman-and notices that in just a second, she seems to have lost ten years in age.

"Manuel?"

"Yeah?"

The blond turns back to the brunette, who he notices is fidgeting slightly with his hand all of the sudden.

"Will you tell me why you really came back?"

"Didn't-"

"Don't give me that bullshit."

Manuel sighs and focuses on the street outside. The river of people diversifies-Manuel watches as everyone from flight attendants in blue short skirts to children bundled up in heavy woolen coats pass. The government officials rush to the corporate officers; the surgeons run towards their operating rooms; the writers scramble to get their coffee before the writer's block kicks them in the nards. Everyone is in a rush to get somewhere-somewhere where they are needed.

_Somewhere where they are needed._

Manuel wishes he was needed somewhere.

"I...I don't know why I came back."

Thomas purses his lips, slightly, and subconsciously, he pulls on the collar of his shirt.

"So-so-you bought a fucking plane ticket from London to here for no fucking reason at all?"

Manuel isn't sure what to say, and in a terror, he says words that he regrets nearly immediately.

"I don't know, I just-I knew my house had been burned, and I-"

"Hold up. You lied to me? About-about being surprised about-how could I be so stupid?"

"No-I-"

"Stop."

Thomas' voice cracks. The lights above Manuel's head suddenly seem to grow in volume, and Manuel's ears can pick up their hum. In the background, the woman behind the counter is polishing a dish, and the elderly couple is giggling. The juxtaposition is painful, and Thomas' voice becomes deadly quiet.

"How could you?

"I-I'm sorry."

"How-how could you think you had the-the right to come back here like that?"

"I thought-"

"No, Manuel. You can't just make this an 'I thought' situation. What you thought was wrong. You came back to fuck up my relationship with a guy I like, isn't it? Is that it, Manuel? Did fucking Mario or Bastian tell you this shit?"

"No, I-"

"Stop."

"Please, Thomas, can we-"

"Can we what? What the fuck do you want from me?"

"Can we-can we just eat our breakfast?"

"Fuck off!"

Standing up, Thomas picks up the silverware and flings it, uncaring of where it lands. It knocks over a set of pepper shakers on the adjacent table. The woman yelps from behind the counter, and the elderly couple fixate their gazes onto the two. Thomas looks at Manuel one last time-hurt outlining his face. Then he flees, the door swooshing close, the tinkle of bells filling the terrible silence that follows.

And once again, Manuel is left alone; the woman attends to a baker coming in from a back entrance and the elderly couple continues their meal. He's left alone to his thoughts, and worst of all, his doubts.

The dead horse that has filled Thomas' departure is nearly palpable, and Manuel feels his body lose warmth. Thomas had left. Thomas had really left. And-and he had ruined everything. It isn't until five minutes later that he realizes that his coffee has grown cold, and that the vibration from Thomas' abrupt exit was enough to break the two hearts on the coffees apart. 

* * *

_Shows that we ain't gonna stand_  
_Shows that we are united_  
_Shows that we ain't gonna take it_  
_Shows that we ain't gonna stand_  
_Shows that we are united_  
-Adele, Hometown Glory  


Bastian's house is welcoming yet lonely-Lukas is in Berlin with his parents; Philipp's kids are at a birthday party. Manuel's curled up in one of Bastian's ebony-colored velvet armchairs-blanket wrapped around his waist, hot chocolate in hand. Bastian himself sits opposite, in the white chair, knees pulled up to his chest. Sipping the hot chocolate, Manuel shivers, and the cup shakes, verging on spilling. Bastian doesn't seem to pay this any mind, and fiddles slightly with the zipper of his jacket.

"I-I-I'm sor-"

"Don't apologize, Manuel. It's not your fault."

"It is my fault. I should have listened to you."

"But then you wouldn't have came back-"

"Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I never should have came back. All I did was fuck things up, right?"

Manuel chuckles darkly, turning away.

Getting up, Bastian gets on his knees in front of Manuel, gently taking the cup of hot chocolate from the blond's large hands. He sets it to the side with a gentle clang.

"Manuel, look at me."

Closing his eyes, the blond doesn't respond.

"Look at me, Manuel. Look at me."

Bastian's persistent but gentle.

"Manu, please. Look at me. Look at me. _Look at me, you fool._ "

Bastian watches as Manuel's face crumples, and turns, blue eyes meeting Bastian's clear, green ones.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"It's not your fault this all happened, Manuel."

"I-"

"It's really not your fault."

"It-"

" _It's not your fault._ "

"But I was the one who broke Thomas. I don't even know where he is. He's probably-I don't know. With Miro."

"Is that a bad thing? That means you didn't break them. It's all okay, Manuel."

"I-I-"

"It's all okay. It's all okay. It's all okay."

"God, please don't do that."

"If you say so."

Manuel's lips quiver, his countenance exhausted.

"Why do I do this?"

"Do what?"

"This. This...weird habit of dependency and destruction? I mean, look, I've ruined your entire night by calling you at twilight and-and-you picked me up, and made me hot chocolate, and I've-I've made you deal with this messy Manuel, this stupid fucking asshole that's Manuel, this-"

"You're not a stupid fucking asshole."

"I might as well be! I manage to screw up _everything_ I do up-every single fucking thing and-"

"You're not a failure."

"God, I-why do I have to-why do I-"

"Manu, stop. Okay? I really think that you're not a failure and you _don't screw everything up._ It's just that sometimes things don't go your way, and that upsets you. It upsets all of us. Listen to me. You're not a failure, Manuel."

"Everything I touch turns to shit."

"You and I-we're not shit, here. You and I-we're diamonds dressed as coal."

Sniffling, Manuel considers this. Bastian's hazy edifice of logic clears his mind a bit, and Manuel wonders whether Bastian is in the wrong life-perhaps he should have been a poet.

"Why are you doing this?"

Reaching into his jeans' pockets, Bastian produces a crumpled white Kleenex.

"Why am I doing what?"

"Why are you here with me? Why aren't you-I don't know-at a club, or a bar, or a fancy restaurant?"

"Manu, you sound like a broken cassette-like you're stuck on repeat. I'm here because-wait for it- _I want to be here._ With you. I think you're magnificent and I hate to see you upset, so why shouldn't I be here?"

Manuel runs a finger across his cheek, tracing his cheekbones, and the oncoming of a headache begins to reveal. A light snow has began outside, and Manuel's hot chocolate is turning lukewarm. Mindlessly, he uncurls his body, getting out of the chair by stepping over Bastian.

"I'm sorry for coming, Basti."

"Don't be sorry."

Bastian grabs Manuel's cup of hot chocolate and stands up, handing it to him.

Now eye to eye, the two men are hesitant to break the silence that's settled between them.

"Basti-"

"Yeah?"

"What if-what if I took...the kids?"

"You _what?_ "

"Like, if-if I adopted them."

Bastian opens his mouth, and closes it again, stopping himself.

"Ahh-I-I'm not sure whether that's a good idea, Manuel."

"Why not? I mean, I have the money, and I'll get a good apartment soon, and I know one of the teachers at the Gymnasium near here, and I have a good record with the government-"

"Manuel, the kids-the kids aren't ready for-for-"

"For me?"

"No, they aren't ready for...someone new. They hated Luki and I when they first came, and...life was difficult."

"I don't care!"

"But I can't let them...feel hurt, again, you know? They...already had to deal with Philipp, and just-I don't think they could take it if...they were forced to move again. Right now, at least."

Bastian watches as Manuel's face falls, but doesn't say anything about it. Neither does the latter.

"I-I understand, Bastian."

"Good. Why don't we play some FIFA?"

"S-sure. And, uh, Bastian?"

"Hmm?"

"Where am I going to sleep tonight?"

Bastian doesn't seem fazed in the slightest.

"I have an old air bed for you, if that's okay. I don't think Lukas would be happy if you slept in my bed. Clothes-you can just borrow some of mine or maybe Lukas', depending on who you think smells better. Underwear-well, that's up to you, I don't really mind. We can set up the air bed in my bedroom, or you can go with the kids. It's your choice, really." "I-I don't want to disturb the kids. I'll just sleep in your room."

"And underwear?"

Manuel flushes.

"Ah-yours, then."

"You have the hots for me, don't you, Manuel?"

Manuel turns even redder, and a smirk tinges on the edges of the other's face.

"N-no, of course not."

"Well, I'm married. Sorry. Not a single lady here. And I've frazzled you to the point where you're stuttering? Hmm. I thought you were more set on Thomas than anything."

"I-"

"Well, I'm going to go pull out some clothes. Meanwhile, either go pour yourself a new cup of cocoa, or dump the old one down the drain. You look like you've been hit by a train, and I don't want you to break my cup. I know I'm super hot, but pull yourself together, kiddo, or Lukas is going to slap you."

And with that, Bastian leaves the room, and leaves Manuel completely dumbfounded about how Basti does it.

Manuel wakes up at dawn-it's a habit at this point. The house is quiet, and blinking a couple of times, his eyes adjust to the still-dark room. Bastian's blond head pokes out of the comforter, and his snores are gentle and soft. Pulling on his socks, he grabs his own clothes from the edge of the bed and begins ripping off Bastian's, throwing them unsoundly behind him. Picking up his shoes by the backheel, he gets off the bed as quietly as possible. Folding the comforter neatly, Manuel tiptoes towards the door and pulls it open as gently as he can, checking frequently that Bastian is still asleep. Feeling satisfied, he closes it, the curved silver handle ice-cold in his palm. Continuing to walk as softly as possible, Manuel find the stairs and climbs down directly-he doesn't want to see the children because-because-because he might wake them up, of course.

Manuel checks the hall clock-7:23.

Perfect.

Navigating through a set of doors to get to Bastian's kitchen, Manuel locates three items.

One.

A pad of paper.

Two.

A black pen.

With these two, he writes a short note to Bastian, signing his name neatly at the end and tearing it out a perfectly as possible.

_Basti-_

_I'm going to head out for a walk. Maybe head to Mario's house. He can drive me back into the city._

_Manuel_

Manuel sets it in front of the black-and-silver microwave, then looks for the third object.

The ring, of course.

The promise ring with Thomas.

Opening the pantry, he picks it up, brushing off the small red spice that's collected on the edges.

Thomas had lost his-that's okay.

He still had his.

Nobody understood why he still had it-but the fact that he still did was enough to justify any means. Manuel wonders whether Bastian had seen the token last night, but dismisses the thought, citing its location as the main reason of this improbability. Feeling the engraving, Manuel fingertips trace the M and the T, and for a moment, he wants to just see him again, hug him, kiss him, keep him close.

But he can't, and it tortures Manuel.

Slipping the ring on his finger, he looks around one more time wistfully, as trying to capture this room for his dreams, for his memories.

By the time Manuel closes Bastian's oaken door, the sky has lightened, blue tinges thronged with tangerine and peach-colored clouds, puffy and comforting. Manuel starts walking; if he's going to get to Mario's, he has a long way to go.

Mario's house is bright red-and, much unlike Thomas', hasn't changed at all. The rugged cobblestone still exists in front of the door, and Manuel feels as if he's stepped back in time again. The peony bushes out front are covered with snow and bear no coloration at all. The doorbell's melodic chime is loud enough for Manuel to hear outside the door, and for the slightest moment, fear that the couple might not be at home or might not want to see him twists his stomach. Gingerly, Manuel pulls lightly on his shirt, and realizes that there's a piece of paper in his breastpocket. But before he can open it, the door opens, and the face of Marco Reus appears, clad in pajamas, hair rough, face abstemious of any product at all.

It's the most natural-yet the most terrifying-version of Marco Manuel has ever seen. Or is his mind playing tricks on him?

"Hel-Manuel? Is that you? What are you doing? It's like 8:00 in the morning!"

"8:22, actually."

"Whatever. What are you doing here?"

"Well, I came back to visit, remember?"

A look of realization crosses Marco's face, and he gives a slight 'oh'.

"Yeah. So...I had...a...fight?"

"You don't have any bruises."

"No, like...a verbal fight, with Thomas."

"Oh, shit. What happened?"

"Just...nothing, it was over something really minor."

"Are you sure it was _minor_? Might have been major to him."

Manuel's shocked for a second-why is Marco telling him this?

"Ah-where's Mario?"

"The kid's...asleep, maybe. Or secretly eating behind my back."

"That's probably true."

"Yeah. Why are you here so early?"

"Like I said, fight with Thomas, slept with Bastian. Not like that! Like...I went to his house to go sleep. I didn't have sex with him! Don't look at me like that!"

"Mhmm. Whatever you say, Manuel."

"Hey!"

Marco chuckles, and he goes back into the house and heads upstairs, leaving the door half-open. Hesitantly, Manuel himself steps in, wiping his shoes on the black, black carpet, making streaks of glistening wetness. Ears numb as they react to the warmth of Marco's house, he swallows nervously. 

Thirty seconds later, Marco's blond unruly head reappears, and behind him comes Mario-just as rugged and natural as his counterpart.

Seeing Manuel, a wide smile stretches across Mario's face, and he half-bounds-half-skips down the rest of the stairs and jumps on Manuel, arms wrapping tightly around the blond's waist and face buried into the taller man's broad chest.

Propping his cheek on the spot right above Manuel's heart, Mario's voice rings out.

"Ohh, Manu, I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too, Mario."

Marco's highly amused, and lets out a slight cackle.

"You two should be together."

"We should."

"Yeah, we should."

Marco lets out a sputter, and Mario giggles.

"Just kidding, darling."

Mario smiles into Manu's chest, and the latter smiles too, eyes flickering between Mario and Marco, who's mock-indignant.

"You better be."

Manuel holds this position for a second-but lets go once Marco's started to give him the death glare. Looking at Mario, Manuel realizes that he too, like everyone else, has changed.

His eyebrows have lost some of their bushiness, and his face has thinned dramatically, losing the child-like suppleness his face used to carry.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"What?"

"I said, why-"

"No, just-I haven't seen you in forever, and-"

Marco shoots him another contemptuous look.

"-and I realize that you've changed."

"Well, duh-hasn't everyone?"

And for a moment there, Manuel feels suspended in time-as if everyone's moved forward and he's just been in the same place-lost and pretending to be found.

Marco jumps in.

"You've changed too, Manuel."

"Yeah, he has. Look, Marco, the hair's different, and he's skinnier, a little bit. And your eyes, Manuel-what the hell happened to your eyes?"

"Wait, what?"

"They're not as clear of a blue as before."

"Oh, I-really?"

"Really."

"Well-I don't know."

"O-okay."

A silence takes hold, and wins dominance for just a split second, Manuel's mind occupying with curious and incoherent thoughts.

"Hey, Manu?"

"Yeah?"

Mario's a little sheepish, and ducks his head while saying the next words.

"Why are you here?"

"Didn't I say?"

"What? No?"

"Oh, I had a fight with Thomas."

Marco interjects complacently.

"Oh, yeah, Mario, he did tell me."

"Oh. But why...here?"

"I-I need you to bring me to him, or somewhere, or just-I don't know, a hotel in Munich."

"Ah-okay. I don't think that...you should go to meet him. It's not really a good idea. I heard-well, from David, at least (at this, Marco scrunches up his face)-Miro and Thomas-they-well-"

"Spit it out, Mario."

"They-they're not exactly...together anymore, and apparently Thomas is...well, bitter, and-um-blaming you."

"What? What the fuck does that mean?"

"Anyways, it's just a rumor, don't think about it too much. Regardless, we should probably bring you to a hotel..."

"Why the fuck would he accuse me because Miro's cheating?"

Marco jumps on.

"Manuel, don't say that, for fuck's sake! If Thomas heard you say that-"

"But you and I both know it's true. With Per."

"Ah-god."

"See?"

"Oh, fuck-okay, Manuel, have it your way. They broke up because Miro was cheating. Happy?"

"Very."

But inside-inside, Manuel feels like shit.

Pure and utter shit.

Shit because he knows-he knows that he was the one who created this bullshit in the first place.

"Will you-will you drive me?"

Mario whispers something to Marco, and the latter smiles.

"Sure, Manuel. But we do have a favor...you can do for us in return."

Manuel doesn't even have to think.

"Sure, what is it?"

"Take a picture with us?"

"Wait, that's a favor? Of course!"

The two look at each other and Mario jumps in.

"No, I was just looking through my photo albums and-well-I don't have a photo with you."

"Wait, what the fuck? How?"

"Dunno. I thought I took one at my birthday party with you two years ago-well, with you and-never mind."

"With who?"

"Never mind?"

"Who?"

"Ah-nobody, never mind."

"Um-okay?"

"So, photo?"

"Yeah, sure."

Manuel's memory falters, and he has absolutely no idea who was in that photo. He distinctly remembers taking photos with Mario-especially the one at the birthday party. What happened?

They take the photo outside.

The snow's started again for the thousandth time since Manuel's arrived. It's heavier this time, wetter, harder, thicker.

Right after, Manuel heads around the house again towards the garage, and even though Mario and Marco ask profusely for him to stay here with them, Manuel refuses, albeit politely. He gets into the car as it pulls out, Marco in the driver's seat and his partner nowhere to be seen. Getting into the passenger seat, his thoughts are focal and direct. It isn't okay to stay-okay to stay and bother these wonderful, wonderful friends of his.

It's time to-to meet Thomas.

No.

He can't, yet.

Maybe-maybe tomorrow. Or next week.

But-next week.

He's leaving next week.

Back to London, and loneliness, and feeling lost, and the monotone from work.

Work in a corporate office.

Work, the ocean of coffee cups and paperwork and stolen chocolates from the break room.

Work, a place without-without them.

Them, Basti and Lukas, Marco and Mario, Thomas...

"Manu?"

"Hmm, yeah?"

"Are you-are we going?"

"Yeah, we're going."

"But-"

Marco pauses.

"To where?"

"I don't know, just-anywhere."

"Manuel, anywhere is a wide place. Why don't you just stay with-"

"No. I'm not going to stay here."

Marco's voice shrinks.

"Okay."

Manuel turns looks out the window, and as the car starts moving, he watches as Mario and Marco's house disappears in the thickening snow. The tracks from the car are visible, and the path they create is fresh, odd, stark. It's a temporary remembrance that he was here-and Manuel notices that the prints he made earlier from walking have already disappeared, lost.

The hotel room's small, slightly old, but doable. The walls are painted a tawny yellow, the furniture set in a deep mahogany. The bed's cramped in the room with a worn and compact nightstand, a little table, and that's it. A clock is the only adornment in the entire room-but that's okay. The bathroom's also restrained size-wise-the sink, toilet, and shower are almost unbearably close. It's manageable though, and Manuel falls into the bed. It's almost noon-he and Marco had been searching for nearly three hours for somewhere with an opening and wouldn't make Manuel go bankrupt-and his stomach is starting to signal its emptiness. Ignoring it, Manuel pulls the blanket close to his body-the room's cold, and there doesn't seem to be a heating function anywhere. Without meaning to, he falls asleep within the next ten minutes, his slumber dreamless and void.

When he wakes up, it's three, and his stomach grumbles ferociously. Adjusting his clothes, he gets out of bed and locks the room up, fingering the keys. Realizing his luggage is at Thomas', he panics for a second, and then realizes that he still at least has his wallet, and his passport. At least he has that. Perhaps-perhaps it'll be enough. He only needs that to go back to London. Cash, and passport. The laptop and the clothes and the journal could be sacrificed.

Oh, shit.

The journal...

That was where all the confessions were.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Thomas had all of his secrets, his confessions.

Holy fucking shit.

Well, it didn't matter anymore.

Thomas could know that Manuel loved him.

Didn't fucking matter anymore, because Manuel was leaving.

Next week.

_Next week_.

All of the sudden, his phone goes off, vibrating in his pocket. Taking it out, Manuel sees that someone is calling.

It's Bastian.

Picking up, Manuel puts the phone to his ear, Bastian's worried voice fluctuating in volume.

"Manuel? Is it you?"

Pausing, he hesitates to respond.

"Manuel? Are you there?"

"H-hi, Bastian, I'm-I'm here."

"Where the fuck are you? You leave a shitty note to me and expect me to-god, I've been calling you for the last hour and half! Why the fuck haven't you picked up?"

"I-I've been sleeping?"

"Sleeping? God-Manuel-it's like, 3:00 pm?"

"It's actually 3:41."

"If you know time so well, why don't you fucking realize that I've been texting for even longer-like two hours! Thomas even came by to drop by your luggage and-"

"Wait, repeat that?"

"I said Thomas was by to drop off your luggage, which I gave back because you weren't here and-"

"Where is he now?"

"He said-well, I told him not to, but he insisted-he said he was looking for you."

"What? No, stop. I'm going to-what? He's looking-looking for me? Why? What? How? Wait-he said-what?"

"Manuel, calm down, it's okay. I think he has your journ-"

"Oh, shit-no, no-shit-shit-shit! He has my journal?"

"Yeah-what's the big deal?"

"Sh-shit!"

"Manuel? Listen to me."

"Fucking shit!"

"I told him to go to Marco's. Do you want me to tell him to-"

"No, don't tell him to come here! Shit, I'm not ready-god, I don't think I'll ever be ready! I should just go jump on a plane and go back to England, none of this should have happened-oh my god-why is he coming? I broke him up! This is all my fault! Fuck-"

"Manuel, calm down, it's really okay!"

"No, it's not-fucking-fucking why does this have to happen?"

"Manu, I really can't do anything to help you-just-hang in there, okay?"

"I can't hang in here, he's-I'm-"

But the line goes dead, and Manuel is left all alone, in the elevator room of a small hotel in downtown München, close to tears.

Closing his eyes, he sinks to the ground, uncaring of the smell of cigarette ashes and the stained carpet with god knows what.

Shit, he says to himself.

Thomas has the journal.

He's going to-going to hate him.

But why would he drop off the luggage?

And want to find Manuel?

Probably-probably because he didn't want to see Manuel's bullshit ever again.

And maybe-maybe he wanted to tell Manuel one more time-"happy now?"

He couldn't stay.

Manuel knows he can't stay.

Getting up, he presses the elevator button a couple of times, hands fidgeting, and when the lift comes up, he jumps in and presses the level 0 switch. Watching the red numbers tick by, his adrenalin has already kicked in, his stomach doing backflips. Once the elevator opens, he rushes out, waving a quick goodbye to the attendant at the front desk (who looks positively bored) and runs out into the cold, cold late afternoon. The sun's going to be setting soon-doesn't matter. Weaving through the crowd, he walks in an elaborate set of rapid movement, turning right and then left again a countless amount of times.

Until-until he's there.

In front of the building that he's been wanting to come back to since the first day he left.

The building that held the first apartment in München.

Not the house-the house is gone now.

His first apartment-the one he first rented with only 800 euros in his pocket, the one he made a life out of himself in, the one where he first made love-truly made love, not some quickie in a dark car.

The apartment complex looks almost the same-made of white stone with red roofing. The second floor window is fixed, now, though-it's been broken before as long as Manuel can remember. The old stone spires of the distant cathedrals poke into the now-darkening, blue sky, sharp and dark against color. The snow stopped about what seems to be an hour ago, and the sky is serene, calm, and waiting for twilight. Manuel hesitates for a moment, and a sense of doubt fills him before he reaches out to grab the metal handle of the heavy wooden door. ignoring the feeling and finding it open, Manuel steps into the building, shutting the door quietly behind him.

His footsteps echo, loud as leather meets tile. The place has been renovated-nearly entirely renovated. The walls are painted a light blue-the color of spring skies and robin eggs. The floor-before carpet-is now an earthen brown travertine tile, slightly jaded. And-it's empty. And quiet.

Quiet to the point that Manuel feels out-of-place, foreign.

When he lived here, this was the loudest part of the building-people made this the living room and the break room and the where-you-go-when-you-have-nothing-to-do room. Coffee tables had been set up in the small oval atrium at the end that branched off into the stairs and the often-broken elevator. Chess pieces and plastic cups always littered the floors, and the location of the remote for the TV was always a topic of high interest. The noise level had always been above a certain decibel level-now, all that was there was tile and wall and paint and the sound of Manuel's shoes against the floor.

It terrified him.

"Manuel Neuer, is that you?"

Manuel recognizes the voice almost immediately.

Elma, the elderly lady who had lived in the apartment a floor down from his own. She'd been instrumental in helping him pay the rent the first few months, and Manuel realizes that he'd never done much back for her.

Whipping around, he confirms his suspicion-wrinkled with age, it's Elma.

"Elma. Err-Mrs. Amsel. Yes-yeah-it's me, Manuel."

Her face crinkles into a smile, and she squints. Manuel remembers that her sight wasn't always the best-but it had to do most of the time.

"Oh, dear. How-how long has it been-how long has it been?"

"I-I don't-I don't know, Mrs. Amsel."

"I suppose a year and a half? Two years? Where did you go, Mr. Neuer? The last time I saw your ruddy little face (to this Manuel reddens just slightly) was when you came back for a bit with that nice boy-what was his name? Timo? Theodor? Tho-"

"-Thomas."

"Yes, him! Where-where's he?"

"Well, I-I just-I just had...a vacation, I guess. A really long one. So...he's not here."

She doesn't seem to understand what he says, but she nods dubiously.

"It's nice seeing you, Mr. Neuer."

"You two, Mrs. Amsel."

She smiles once more, and turns to exit. But before she leaves, she utters a phrase that is barely audible.

"Good luck, Mr. Neuer. Don't fuck up."

And then she leaves, opening and closing a door to leave Manuel by himself again.

He sinks to the ground-it's been the fifteen of the thousand actions he's done over and over again in this hell of a city that they call München. It's a vicious cycle-breakup to laugh to cry to sleep, eat, drink, quiet, quiet, loud, quiet, quiet, snow, calm, snow, calm, rain, rain, snow, snow, snow...

The last few days have been a whirlwind-but it's almost time to go back.

He's missed the monotone of work as much he had missed the bustle when he was in London-an ironic paradox that Manuel wishes he had never, ever gotten involved in.

And the saddest thing is that-is that Manuel _is_ involved-it is his life, after all.

Time seems to lose track of itself, and Manuel lets the tears flow freely this time-no holding back, no hiding from the truth. He was running away from Thomas. Thomas and himself. Together. And he was back just to tempt at it, temper its spirit, and run before they could get too close. But now-now Thomas and him-well, they didn't exist anymore.

* * *

_Round my hometown_  
_Memories are fresh_  
_Round my hometown_  
> _Ooh the people I've met_ _Do da di di da da da da do do do do oh oh oh yeah..._  
_Are the wonders of my world_  
_Are the wonders of my world_  
_Are the wonders of this world_  
_Are the wonders of my world_  
_Of my world_  
_Yeah_  
_Of my world_  
_Of my world yeah_  
-Adele, Hometown Glory  


The night is swift, and Manuel imagines that it's already pitch-dark outside. The lights flicker, and Manuel tries to get up, pulling his feet towards his body first and then hoisting himself up.

He takes one last look around this place-he doesn't think he's coming back-before he walks back into the hallway. His footsteps seem even louder now and quicken. He's intent on going back home. His stomach reminds him once more of his temporary malnutrition, and Manuel yanks the door open forcefully. The cold hits him like a shot, and the blast is frigid. The snow hasn't started-even his tracks from before are still there-but the wind is turned up all the way. The crowd outside is slower, but the red and yellow lights of vehicles capture the eye. Navigating through, Manuel finds the closest restaurant he can see-a shoebox little thing without any vigorously apparent name.

He orders quickly-Italian food, which Benedikt had gotten him hooked on when they were together what seems like a thousand years ago-and eats voraciously, the pasta disappearing completely in ten minutes. The restaurant is completely empty, and the waiter boy-20-something, dark-haired, grey-eyed-dotes on him, bringing him a free dessert and several, several loaves of bread (which Manuel also devours).

Before long, Manuel departs, folding his napkin neatly and leaving a fat check, an extra fat tip and with a full, full stomach.

The taxicab ride home is painful.

The last time he rode a taxi was when he left München for London-he'd been crying, silently, like a lowkey version of the music video for Duffy's Warwick Avenue without the smeared mascara and then desaturation. Inside he'd felt as she did-slightly broken, but functioning.

Except he was leaving, and she was returning.

The driver is a 40-something brunette with a smattering of freckles and a lined face that conveyed stress, worry and diligence. When the car arrives at the hotel, Manuel leaves him with a decent tip, and runs into the lobby, looking downwards and ignoring the woman at the front desk, who's busy with a guest yet still glances up to watch him cross the hall. He gets in the elevator with a furious haste, taking quick, rapid breaths.

When the silver doors open at his floor, he rushes out, barreling down the hallway to his room. Fumbling for his keys, he bursts into the room, finding the lights on.

And-

Well-

A person.

Sitting on the bed, of course.

A man, to be precise.

In front of the man is a solitary suitcase.

Red, with black lining.

Manuel's.

And it's Thomas.

Manuel nearly has a heart attack right then and there.

"Holy fuck."

"Hello, Manuel."

"How the-how the fuck did you-how the fuck did you get in my fucking room?"

Thomas hesitates, but continues.

"I-I had a long discussion with the lady at the front desk and showed her your luggage and some-some souvenirs, memorabilia, and-well-a photo, I had of you."

"Wait- _what_? You have souvenirs and a fucking photo right on hand of me?"

"Manuel, I-"

"Save it, get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Manuel. Manuel, please, don't do this. I-I want you to know-

"Don't you give me your shit. I don't-I don't want to hear it."

"Manuel, I'm sorry, please-"

"Fuck you. Leaving me at the restaurant like that? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I'm ju-"

"You know what, it doesn't even matter. I shouldn't even fucking care."

"I was being irrational-"

"I don't fucking care! I'm leaving-I'm fucking leaving next week, and please, just get out of my apartment before-"

Thomas' voice raises too, and it gains an intensity that Manuel hasn't heard in a long time.

"Before what, you coward?"

"What did you just fucking call me?!"

"A COWARD! A FUCKING COWARD!"

"YOU KNOW WHAT, FUCK YOU, THOMAS! I DON'T NEED YOU IN MY LIFE!"

"THEN TELL ME THIS, _Manuel_ -WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU HERE IF LONDON IS SO FUCKING PERFECT?"

"Because-well-because-"

Manuel's at a loss for words.

"SEE? You don't even know! You're just-just-bullshit! You're fucking bullshit! I took up this entire fucking day to try to find you and 45 more minutes to argue with the lady at the front desk to let me into this room and-"

"Wait, you-you spent the entire day? Bastian-Basti told me you started looking at 4?"

"I've been looking since 7am, you motherfucker."

"But-but-"

"BUT WHAT?"

"But why?"

"Because I FUCKING LOVE YOU, MANUEL! You know, I READ your little book."

Pulling out Manuel's journal from his back pocket, he throws it onto the bed.

"I never knew you checked me out so much, Manu."

"God, fuck-I-fuck-"

Manuel turns red, and he feels his face begin to burn and his temper alleviate.

"You're fucking bipolar, I swear. Like-one second you're this, and the next you're that."

"Thomas, I-I-"

"I know. You know that photo I mentioned?"

Manuel pauses and buries his head in his hands. His words are muffled.

"What?"

"You know, the one I said I showed the front desk lady? Yeah, do you wanna see it?"

Before Manuel can reply, the brunette reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a Polaroid, handing it to Manuel almost apologetically, who uncovers his face.

Manuel takes the photo and realizes that it's the same one that he saw in Thomas' attic a couple of days ago.

It's captioned _With Manuel, my love _.__

It dawns upon Manuel that it's also the photo that was taken at Mario's birthday party-the three of them, Mario, Thomas, and Manuel, are grinning ferociously, and the latter two look like they're in deep, deep love.

"You know, Manu, I carry this everywhere."

"Ev-everywhere? Wait, since when?"

"Since-(here, Thomas sighs)-since-well, since you left."

"Even with Miro?"

Thomas nods, slightly guiltily.

"Hey, Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"Never, ever, break in to my room again to give me back a book of all my secrets, a suitcase, and a fucking photograph."

"Okay. I promise."

"Good."

"And-oh, Manuel. Could you promise me something too?"

"Yeah, sure?"

"Won't you-won't you come back and have a cup of coffee with me?"

Manuel smiles, and his reply carries no hesitation whatsoever.

"Of course."

The brunette grins, and reaches out his hand. Manuel takes it, and under his breath, he mutters.

"You're truly my hometown glory, Thomas; a wonder of my world."

Thomas looks up, smiling.

"What was that?"

And Manuel, for the first time in a long time, feels completely happy.

"Nothing."

"Okay."

The two fall back on the bed, and the night drowns itself away in laughter and in memories.

Outside, the snow's began again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it.
> 
> Kudos is appreciated, comments and concrit are my darlings and I will love your pretty face to death if you do get to it :)
> 
> I do realize I have some flow issues-if you have any suggestions, I'd appreciate it very much.
> 
> Sarah-  
> Thank you for just existing. I hope this lived up somewhat to what you expected. And yes, I did take out that Miromas heartbreak that Max wrote that was super angsty because it was getting too long.
> 
> Max-  
> You were the one who made me listen to this song-so this is also for you. Your contributions to this body of work are among what I hold most dear when it comes to works like this.
> 
> There are various movie, song and short story references-see if you can spot them all (e.g. A Telephone Call, Good Will Hunting, Kramer vs. Kramer, Paper Heart, etc.). 
> 
> If you're wondering, Maelu is a real shop-and Ms. Sonja was one of the creators. The real café is far more beautiful than the one I described, and there are waiters rather than by-the-counter service. I'd recommend you check it out if you ever travel to Germany or are around the Munich area. You can find their website [here](maelu.de).
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading, and I hope I brought you smiles or tears or perhaps memories of times past.
> 
> -Leon


End file.
